


It Was Pretty Fucking Clear

by ghettoassenglishman



Series: He's Just Like His Daddy [6]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Babies, Bonding, Fluff, M/M, Tumblr Ask Box Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 15:56:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3902125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghettoassenglishman/pseuds/ghettoassenglishman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Come on, little man, fuck what your dad says, we're pigging out and watching a bunch of shitty movies." Owen makes a sound of agreement, his hand absently trying to grab hold of his own dummy. </p><p>Anon Prompt: possible fic idea: Mickey bonding with Owen?</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Was Pretty Fucking Clear

**Author's Note:**

> so so so so cute to do I HOPE YOU LIKE IT. I really love writing in this series tbh

Mickey walks through into the living area, only in his boxers, rubbing his eyes in tiredness of staying up all hours of the night, trying to get their ten-month back to sleep. Ian's already awake; showered, dressed, hair pushed back in a way that made it uncontrollable not to drool from the mouth. Ian's stood in a white fitted shirt and a pair of black slacks, a tie wrapped loosely around his neck. Mickey's mouth waters, the corners of his dry lips curling. He walks over, heart ready to burst at the sight of the redhead with his double cooped up in his arms, swaying around the kitchen.

 _"Damn_ , Gallagher." He utters sleepily, yawning as he made his way over to the kitchen. Ian jolts around, face splitting into a smile that lit right up. Once he saw Mickey shuffling through, Owen giggles against Ian's chest, one small, chubby hand sloppily holding around his neck, eyes following Mickey as the man entered the room.

Swaying a little, Ian grabs the dummy off the table, gently placing it into Owen's mouth. "You just wake up?" He asks, walking over to Mickey, shifting an innocent Owen against his hip, smile as warm as the sun.

They are barely inches apart, Mickey reaches over, running a soft hand across the top of Owen's red hair. Smirking, he leans in to kiss Ian, gently nipping at the skin of Ian's bottom lip. “No. I ran a fucking mile, what do you think?”

"Language." Ian warns, placing a finger against Mickey's lips, squirming as the brunette dashes out his tongue, licking teasingly at his finger. They had a “No swearing” policy around Owen, Ian had insisted they create it because it was somehow an _achievement_ to have their child's first words, not _fuck_ or _dick._ Owen throws a hand over, slapping lightly against the tip of Mickey's nose, making Ian burst into laughter.

"Fuck off, Gallagher. He's heard it before." Mickey answers back, trying to hide his smile as he admires his two redheads. He never understood family, not really, until he got these two. Ian nods in agreement, still tittering. "His first word better not be one of yours, I swear to god."

Mickey slaps his chest dramatically, gasping in a mock. "How _dare_ you." He giggles a little, pressing his index finger into Owen's palm, letting him clutch it tightly. "Its Saturday, why the hell are you working?"

"Its only a couple of hours." Ian rolls his eyes, leaning down to kiss the side of their child’s face, beaming. "They wanted me in for a meeting, then I've gotta make a few calls. You going to be okay?" He asks, looking towards Mickey sympathetically.

Sighing, Mickey tilts his head as if Ian asked the worlds stupidest question. " _Really_ , Gallagher, I can look after our son for a couple of hours, he's not a fucking monster." He looks over at his son, the innocent lump of chuckles, sucking innocently around his dummy, giggles muffled by the plastic.

The kid was sunshine; he'll be more than fine.

"Language." Ian repeats, shaking his head. "You never know, he could turn as soon as I leave the house." He smirks, they always did this, competed on who Owen loved most. Even though they both knew the kid loved them equally, in his own little ways.

"He loves _me_ \- don't you little man?" Mickey coos, stroking his free-finger against Owen's smooth cheek. Looking back over to Ian, he runs the hand across the side of his neck, playing with the ginger hairs at the nape. "Nah, man. I'll be good. Don't worry your ass off. Go write notes in your office. We're good."

"Editing." Ian corrects, leaning into Mickey's touch.

"Yeah, whatever."

"Shoot." Ian notices the time, lifting Owen over in Mickey's arms. "Take him before he spews all over my shirt, have no time to take it off again." He rushes over to the table, grabbing his set of keys and his wallet. Mickey watches, smugly, bobbing his hip as Ian frantically patted his pockets and slipped into his jacket.

Holding Owen against his hips with both hands, he laughs, yelling over, "Kids got the right idea, looks like we all want your shirt off." He wouldn't mind it, really, Ian had definitely kept in shape over the last months. Unlike Mickey, who had lost the baby weight, but lounged around the house most hours of the day, who didn't have time since the whole parenting thing. Ian didn't either, it was like he worked out in his sleep - but then again, he did go for mile runs at five in the morning.

Ian pulls a face, running a hand through his hair, walking over to the two. "You're disgusting." He pulls Mickey into a kiss, latching their lips together. The brunette moans into the kiss, one hand around the joint of Ian's hip. Owen tugs at the corner of Ian's hair, the sound of the squeaking plastic in his mouth jolting them apart. Ian's eyes widen, cooing over to Owen. "You want some love too, little man?" He strokes a gentle hand through his sons auburn hair, leaning down to kiss him at each cheek, letting the little boy squirm under his touch.

"You be good for your dad, right." He pretends to go into dad mode, Mickey snorting beside him, watching as the redhead continued to be fucking adorable and the biggest dork alive. "He will." Mickey confirms, smiling through his heart, like every-time he watched Ian and Owen together. It did something, like flare igniting through his body.

Ian laughs a little, brushing a strand of hair out of Mickey's face affectionately. Chuckling, he tickles under his sons child, the beautiful sight of the boy causing his heart to ponder, punch against his chest. "You tire him out, yeah." He kisses the top of his head again, grinning childishly towards his boyfriend.

"Alright. Alright. Enough with the sappy bullshit." Mickey shoos him off towards the door, playfully pushing him away. "Get out of here, go to work you dork."

Surrendering, Ian stares adoringly towards his family. Heart wanting to burst at the perfect sight. It took a long time to get here, but they made it. Strange how they were at the depths of sadness just two years back. "I'm going. I'm going, Jesus. Just do something productive today, no pigging out like usual?"

"I don't fucking pig out." Mickey acts defensive, following Ian over to the front door of their apartment, arching a brow as Ian walked backwards, smirking on his way out.

"Seriously, Mick, you ate the whole box of fucking pop tarts last night." Ian scoffs, cutting Mickey off before he could bullshit his way out of the Poptart disappearance. "Don't even try, Milkovich, I know it was you."

"Language." Mickey imitates Ian's words, smiling cockily. "Go to work, Gallagher." Mickey pushes him towards the door, lips curling into a smile, Owen shifted in his arms - giving Ian grabby hands, like he always did whenever he went to work. Ian winks, blowing him a kiss teasingly before pecking the tip of Owen's nose.

Mickey hears the redheads laugh, all the way down the hall, even when he shuts the door. Once Ian was gone, he always felt a little empty, but now he had Owen to fill that space. Walking back through the apartment, he laughs to himself - but more at Ian's weak threats - it wasn't regular that he would be left in the apartment, alone with Owen at the weekend, and he was taking full advantage of that time. "Come on, little man, fuck what your dad says, we're pigging out and watching a bunch of shitty movies."

Owen makes a sound of agreement, his hand absently trying to grab hold of his own dummy. He bobs as Mickey walks around the kitchen, leaning his head against his shoulder. Mickey grabs a box of crisps, some rusks, a bottle of beer and a plastic bottle of milk - that Ian had obviously prepared, because he always made sure that sort of shit was done before leaving the house. "Come on little man."

Mickey sits Owen against the carpet, placing a couple of cushions around him, sat in the middle of his scattered toys. He places the snacks and drinks against the couch before walking over to the television set. "Right, you're going to learn something, little guy." He grabs Double Impact from the stack of discs, slipping it into the player. "Mine and your dads favourite film, but I can't really tell you why until you're a little older."

Owen looks up, admiringly, through his lashes, hands failing to grab the block in front of him. Mickey beams, his heart blooming at the beauty of his son - how did he get so lucky?

The film loads up, he presses play and joins Owen against the floor, pressing his back against the bottom of the couch. His legs apart, he tilts backwards, hand clutching the pile against the cushions. Grabbing the two bottles, he places his beer to the side, the milk in-between his legs. Owen turns his head, eyes widening towards his father lovingly.

"What?" Mickey grins, hands around the bottle. He follows Owen's enchanted eyes towards the milk. "You want this?" He waves the milk, chest thumping once he sees Owen shifting on his own. Still at ten months, the kid was held everywhere, Ian would give in and carry him around most of the time. Mickey wanted him to crawl, or move at least.

Owen spits out his dummy, dribbling down his chin, giggling with heart eyes. He babbles a little bit, trying to form words that he hadn't learnt yet. He shifts against the carpet, pushing his legs sloppily. "You want the milk, come get it." Mickey encourages, opening his arms whilst wiggling his fingers, grin plastered over his face.

When Owen moves a little, Mickey leans forward. "Come on, little man, you can do it." When the redhead pushes off his weight, hands landing against the floor as he tried to kneel up, all Mickey could see was Ian. The spitting image. The raw determination. The kid had already crawled up to his knees, shaking a little against the weight. "Yeah, that's it." Mickey feels himself saying, hands still waggling in front of him, opening up for his son.

Owen leans up against his arms, falling hopelessly against the carpet. Mickey huffs out a giggle, face wincing a little each time he failed, "Come on, little man, I don't take you as a quitter."

Just as Mickey expected, the kid was more like Ian than he had thought. The red-headed little boy tries again, pushing his weight up onto his arms and legs. Slowly, he leans up, cheekily looking up towards his dad. Mickey lets out a snort, shuffling himself against the carpet, moving closer, pushing the toy-blocks out of Owen's path. "I'd bribe you with beer, but your dad would have my fucking ass." Mickey breathed, fondly.

In a split second, Owen moved against the floor, crawling his way slowly - struggling a little - over the rug and nearing over to Mickey. It was hard not to feel proud, hell - Ian had been the only thing that made him proud, but this - his son crawling for the first time, and to him, it was more than pride he felt, it was she's happiness and warmth that only Ian had been capable of giving.

Guess it was in the genes.

"Yes.Yes. Fucking yes." Mickey yells, cheering as Owen successfully crawls all the way up to his lap, babbling gibberish, as his little, blue eyes light up with pride. Mickey lifts him up, balancing him in the air, his laugh mixed with gasps, his heart pounding at a hundred beats a minute. He did it. He fucking did it. God, Mickey had never felt so proud. The little boy squirms in his hold, he kisses the top of his red hair and places him against his lap, his smile nearly breaking his face.

It's a mix of gasping breaths, the babble of Owen, and the background noise of the television. Mickey is trying hard, very hard, not to feel the clench in his chest that only two people could make him feel. One was stressing out in a stupid office, well _editing,_ and the other was driving a truck over of his thigh, attempting to make engine noises. 

“Woah, Woah, Woah.” He yells, jumping to the situation of his son trying to grab onto his beer. He lifts Owen onto his leg, away from the bottle, making sure it wasn't even in sight. God, he was definitely like Ian, but Mickey could also see himself within the kid. “You drink that you'll be on your ass, this stuff – it's shit, really bad stuff, mess with your liver and shit.” He tries to explain to a ten-month the effects of alcoholism, like he was some expert or something. Sighing, he speaks fondly of Ian, “Plus, your dad would have _my_ ass. I might like that most-of-the time but he'll be more than fucking rough.” 

Owen just giggles deviously, slapping a hand against Mickey's chest. Stubborn; just like his daddy. 

***

“Let's get this shit cleaned up.” Mickey recalls, pulling Owen out of the tub inside of the bath. He never really remembered babies being this slippery. Sure, he had helped with Liam many times – but bathing a baby, and cleaning him up, was pretty fucking hard. “How the fuck does Ian do this.” 

Owen giggles as Mickey lays him against his back against the soft bed of towels against the floor. The red-head reaches up, pressing his wet, cold finger against Mickey's lips. Mickey looks down, spluttering against the water, then he realised the same mischievous glint. “Oh, don't you start with that shit. Just like your fucking dad, you are.” 

Mickey grabs a diaper from the pile stacked in the corner, pulling it open like he was cracking open the worlds safe. Ian always did this stuff. “Seriously,” he looks down to his son, pleading for help, the little boy just plays with his feet, babbling in song. “How the hell do this things work, Jesus.” Instead, he grabs the yellow towel hung over the side of the bath, lifting Owen from the floor. 

“I guess I've gotta get you dry first, huh.” Mickey mutters, pulling the yellow towel around Owen like a blanket. The baby hums, chuckling and failing around in the wrap of the material. Mickey shifts him to his chest, his head resting against his shoulder, wetting his shirt. “Fuck it.” He speaks to himself, standing up and grabbing the supplies he hopes he needs. 

He walks through into his and Ian's bedroom, dumping the stuff onto the bed, and gently placing Owen against the blanket. “What you giggling about, short-stop?” Mickey asks the baby, eyes following the movement of his son rolling around against the bed. 

Kneeling down, he rolls up his sleeves, “You know, I'm pretty shit at this stuff, so no judging.” Mickey unclasps the blanket from around him, freeing the boy from the couple second entrapment. Owen sprawls out, sucking against his thumb as he watched Mickey moved around in a rush. 

It took him two minutes to powder, to pin up the diaper, to  _finally_ piece it together. Sitting the little boy up, Mickey climbs to the bed, towel in hand. “So, little man, how's it feel to be ginger?” He asks, snickering to himself. God, Ian would kill him for this. He lifts the little boy to his knee, hoisting him steady with his right arm. With his left, he pushes the towel over Owen's head, drying the wet thin strands that stood upright. “Man, you have more hair than me.” he grumbles. 

Owen shifts awkwardly, his face scrunching a little as Mickey ruffled the towel against his hair. “Hey, hey. None of that shit, it's okay.” Mickey tries to reassure the ten-month, stopping the towel and pulling his son back to his chest. It had been seven hours since Ian had gone to work, only seven, but Mickey could immediately recognise the kid missing him like crazy. 

“I miss him too.” Mickey whispers, kissing the side of Owen's head. Wondering how the hell he could have second thoughts about having him. “You should be missing _me,_ you were living in me for nine fucking months.” He laughs, cutting himself short when he realises what he just said. Owen would understand when he was older.

The little, redhead looks at him dearly, opening and closing his mouth. His chubby hand reaches up and plays with the edge of Mickey's chin, brushing his fingers through the stubble recently formed there. “Alright, I know.  _Language.”_ Mickey speaks in mono-tone, rolling his eyes as he laid back against the bed, Owen perked against his chest. The little boy moves, uncoordinated,trying to fit himself into the crook of Mickey's arm. 

“What you doing, little man?” Mickey asks, his eyes drooping, hands wrapped firmly around his son. 

Owen yawns, squishing his pale body into the small gap of Mickey's arm. Mickey imitates, his own yawn echoing through the silence. It had been strange; Owen had cried nearly  _all_ afternoon after the crawl, and yet – when he mentions Ian, he's suddenly sunshine all over again. Dork. “I know, bud, it's been a long fucking day. Don't want you working too hard, do we?” 

When he looks to the side, his weak smile resting against his lips, he tries to catch his breath when he sees Owen's eyes flutter closed, his hand resting delicately against the top of the brunettes collarbone. “Good choice, kid.” He wouldn't ever be-able to express how much love he felt for the child, it was clearly unexplainable. It was the same with Ian. If anyone asked him why or how he loved the two so much, he couldn't answer. There was too many things to say. 

 

***

Ian quietly makes his way through the apartment, closing the door as slowly as he could. Pulling off his jacket, shoes and tie, he rubs a hand over his face, walking over to his and Mickey's bedroom. The door was already peaked open, the light just flicked on. Ian steps through, expecting to see Mickey on his phone, or trying to get Owen to calm down – he was always awake at this time – but when he walks through, it's different. 

Mickey's sprawled against the sheets, hair stuck to his face, shirt slightly open and the arms rolled up to the crease of his elbow. Owen's tucked into his arm, head rested against the top of his shoulder, hand protectively holding onto his chest. There's baby powder all over the place, whitening the black sheets of the bed. The rooms a mess, toys  _ everywhere,  _ just like they were in-front of the television. It was so _Mickey_ he knew. He loved it more knowing the two of them had created this mess. 

It's beautiful. It really was. These moments didn't happen usually. Owen was always awake at this time, tearing down the house screaming, trying to get them both the play. But now, now he was cooped up against Mickey's chest, all warm and in a deep sleep. Ian couldn't contain the feelings trapped in his chest, ready to burst from within, the love. A lot of love. It was his family. A little messed-up, but that's them. 

Ian slips off his pants, starting to unbutton his shirt. His eyes never leaving the two he loved the most. How did he get so lucky? He slips under the blanket, pulling it over both Owen and Mickey. The brunette shifts against the sheets, his eyes flickering open when the bed dips with Ian's weight. “Ian?” He drones out, voice raspy with sleep. 

“Sh.” Ian whispers, scooting himself closer, wrapping an arm around Mickey's waist, kissing the top of Owen's head. He didn't want to ruin this. “Just go back to sleep.” 

Mickey mumbles something back, sleep taking over him as Ian made himself comfortable. Next to Owen, he lies his head against Mickey's opened arm, basking in the warmth that fled through the sheets. It was beautiful, it really was. Mickey had been scared to bond with Owen; but Ian  _ knew  _ the kid adored him, it was pretty fucking clear. 


End file.
